You look like a constipated lemon
That’s fading round the edges
Like the crusty volumes in Whitehall
Reneging on their pledges.
Your mouth spouts such spurious shit
Your rectum is redundant,
You could fertilise a thousand fields
With the vitriol your drainpipe spits.
But despite your abhorrence,
Like dung beetles, your scat-deprived audience
Savours, rolls and feasts the manure
Dripping from your every putrid utterance.
It’s you who exudes the stench
But they who make my stomach rile
My liver spit out bitter green bile,
My gut wrench against vacant lack of sense.
But it’s not just hillbilly cotton-eye Joe
It’s the vile velleity of apathy in-tow, Cameron and co.
Disputing your madness yet passing through
Deceit and ideals that make your callous words seem true.
It’s not a man’s world it’s a bigot’s playground.
While all around your promise of a wall gets slighted,
They’re shutting the borders to the plighted
To satiate blighted Middle England’s unsighted.
Yes, you’re two horns short of Balthasar
But are you any worse
Than Bush, Cruz, or any of the tools
Who pander to this mass of disdainful fools?
These crass, self-serving reprobates
Who populate the upper and middle classes
Turn out to vote in an elitist right
Who smugly smite down from up high with spite.
In spite of these, the “extreme” left wing
Suggesting such outlandish things
As equal rights and prosperity for plenty
A deranged ideal for the dung beetle gentry.
A deranged ideal for these vacuous vectors
Of a society-supressing care-deficient retrovirus
Supplanting genes of reprehensibility –
And splicing through the NHS with glee.
That’s the virus, it’s the only way to explain
The disconnected hatred that seeps through the veins
Of a society genetically manipulated to feel no shame.
Like a naked mole rat lacks pain receptors,
These infected, contagious guinea-pig sheep
Are rendered impervious to suffering and need,
Empathy epigenetically concealed.
Empathy switched off by the virulent press,
Promoting an apathetic, selfish plaque;
The Alzheimer’s strangles the prefrontal cortex
As we descend, confused, to a hatred-fuelled past.
I wish you were a constipated lemon,
Then at least your bitterness would be good for something,
I could slice you into pieces and sip you with my gin,
But it looks like you actually might win.